


dandelion fluff.

by sidestepisdead (ArcMark)



Category: Fallen Hero Series - Malin Rydén, Fallen Hero: Rebirth (Video Game)
Genre: Hanahaki Disease, Other, POV Second Person, Pre-Heartbreak Incident
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-26
Updated: 2019-08-18
Packaged: 2020-05-19 23:23:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 7,868
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19365799
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ArcMark/pseuds/sidestepisdead
Summary: You can wish all you want, but nothing will change unless you do something about it.Or: Sidestep has a crush on Ortega, and it's killing them.





	1. revelation.

You’re Sidestep.

A vigilante before the fall, and a comrade to the Rangers. If you weren’t hiding so many secrets, you’d consider yourself just like them.

Most of them, anyway. There are some who you think you may never figure out fully. Steel is one of them, and Ortega’s another. On your best days, you like to think the Rangers are the closest thing you have to friends. On your worst days, you wait for the sham to crumble, and anticipate looks of terror on their all too familiar faces.

Although you think today you’re getting close to the latter, especially in this moment. It only takes a second for things to turn south, and that’s why alarms are going off in your head.

Because you’re having a coughing fit. In front of him.

Ortega isn’t supposed to know.

You’re lucky that he won’t recognise the tiny, yellow dandelion petals that are meant to be his, but this is still horrible in every other way. If you were someone else, someone normal, this wouldn’t be an issue you have to face. This wouldn’t be another secret you’re forced to hide.

Even though you’re doing a shit job at hiding it.

Ortega’s face contorts with immediate concern, and you can already tell he has a million questions buzzing around in his mind. You don’t need telepathy to read him. You just need to feel regret.

“Who is it?” he asks, all seriousness as he places the only trash can in the office in front of you and holds out a tissue.

You take it, spit out the petals, and throw the crumpled up ball into the garbage. If only you could do that in full. Take out your feelings and throw them away like they’re nothing.

It’d save you from having to answer. You clear your throat, trying to rid it of the lump of nervousness that’s building up. What do you say to the person who’s causing you so much pain? Do you dare to lie? It doesn’t seem like you have any other choice.

“Anathema,” you say. You swear you can feel rose thorns barely graze your heart. “Don’t—”

“Don’t tell, I know, I know.” He leans against the table and crosses his arms. “I have to be honest, I thought it would be me.”

Despite the danger it brings, you can’t help but chuckle. “I hear someone’s ego talking again.”

Ortega’s grin is disarmingly bright. “It’s only because I speak the truth, you know. We hang around each other a lot. It’s only logical that you’d—”

“Like you?” You give him a skeptical look, with one raised eyebrow and crossed arms to fully convey the emotions you don’t feel. “Maybe, but not in this life.”

“That’s a shame.” His warm brown eyes meet yours, and you resist the overwhelming urge to look away. “We’d be good together.”

“In your dreams, maybe,” you snark, just loud enough for him to hear. It’s too warm here. Too suffocating in his presence. You get up from your chair and move towards the hallway, but something grabs your arm.

“Wait.”

You turn around, murder in your eyes, and Ortega lets go. “Sorry. I forgot.” You nod stiffly, arm still tingling from where he touched you. A month ago, you told the Rangers you were touch averse. It wasn’t a complete lie, but it was mostly so that ~~Ortega~~ people who forgot about boundaries wouldn’t touch you and cause this to happen.

Clearly, someone’s had a lapse in judgement.

“What do you want?” You don’t have to force the impatience in your tone; it’s all natural. Authentic. If it were up to you, you’d be this real all the time.

Ortega opens his mouth. Closes it. Opens it again, as if to say something, then seems to think better of himself and shuts it again. For once, he’s thinking before he does something. If the two of you were somewhere else, and if the situation was different, you’d be laughing and teasing him about how much he’s acting like a fish.

Except you’re here. You’re suffering. Your lungs are filling up, and the flowers are growing faster the longer you’re around him, and you don’t have the patience to deal with him today. So you shake your head and let out a tired sigh before leaving the room.

And even though you don’t turn around, you know Ortega’s watching you go.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to everyone in the FH server for encouraging me to post this. Y'all're super cool. Stay tuned for chapter two and onwards, because oh boy. This is gonna go places.


	2. doubt.

The next time it happens, you’ve just finished fighting someone. It’s nothing new; just some overhyped, lowlife villain who thinks they’re enough to best the Rangers single-handed. 

They expected you to show up, judging by their taunts of “Sidekick Sidestep.” You’re currently sitting on the sidelines as the Rangers do their usual press talk, mask rolled up just enough so that you can devour an energy bar. You try to tell yourself it doesn’t matter.

You try to tell yourself you’re worth something. But deep down, doubt lingers. It festers. It grows and blooms, just like the flowers stuck in your chest. _You’re nothing without them._

You shove the rest of the energy bar in your mouth and roll down your mask, still clutching the wrapper for a garbage can to consume later. The world’s already in bad shape, no use in adding to it by littering.

Part of you aches for a shower and the feeling of cool air against your sweat-slicked skin. A good night’s rest, too, even though it’s only 2 pm. Sometimes you’re worried that you’re being too carefree instead of careful, but nothing’s happened so far.

Nothing except for a ticking time bomb inside of you, waiting for the day where you finally keel over and die because you’re a coward.

You spare a glance at Ortega and the others, watching them converse with the press like it’s nothing. Judging by how long it’s been, they should be wrapping up soon. Then it’ll be a small swarm of heroes and a vigilante, all of them headed back towards a place that’s as close to a home as it gets for someone like you.

Sure enough, the reporters start to walk away, and the first person to approach you is someone you’d rather avoid. _Ortega._

“How are you holding up?” he asks, watching you get up and dust yourself off.

“Fine,” you say. “A bit bruised here and there, but nothing too bad. We’re lucky it wasn’t someone like Psychopathor again.”

Ortega scowls at the mention of the villain. “You’re right. That _pendejo_ is something else.”

You fall in line with him, walking as casually as you can manage on a sprained ankle. It’s not that bad; you tripped on a stray piece of debris and landed awkwardly on your foot, is all.

Still, it doesn’t stop Ortega from worrying. “Lean on me,” he offers, causing you to shake your head and attempt to move forward on your own. You figure the pain is enough to keep your mind off of how close he is. How warm and gentle his touch is, and how much you crave it.

How his mouth would fit against yours in the sweetest of ways, and how you could—

_Pain._

You stop, the force of the cough strong enough to eject petals from your mouth. Tiny, yellow petals are now stuck to the inside of your mask. You don’t dare to roll it up and get rid of them.

Ortega stares at you with increasing concern, and, safe under the mask, you grimace. You were doing so well until just now.

Leave it to your own mind to ruin the peace in an instant. You’re lucky it was only one cough. Any more, and it might’ve drawn unwanted attention.

Of course, Ortega’s worried gaze is already enough to make you feel unsettled, warm sweat turning cold and clammy under your mask. “Is it getting worse?” he asks, voice low enough so that it’s only for your ears.

Your chest tightens, and the threat of a floral onslaught seems to draw near. You don’t want to end up with a suit full of vomit and flowers, so you settle for a nod. Better a lie than more questions.

You take a deep breath to calm your ever-present nerves and set off, trying to assure yourself that you can place one foot in front of the other without any other incidents occurring. Ortega follows you, and you can hear him walk if you concentrate on quieting your steps.

This is what your life has always been like in the presence of the Rangers. You, ten steps ahead and planning every move carefully, and them, ten steps behind and always hurrying to catch up.

You wonder when the day will arrive, and everything you’ve worked so hard for crashes down on you.

You hope it never comes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope this addition to the story seems like it's in the right place. To be frank, I have no real idea where this story is going, but I like it so far. Again, a big shout-out to the people on Discord who loved the first chapter. You're all fantastic. Oh, and don't worry. Sidestep's hang-ups about their self-worth will be addressed later on.


	3. hope.

It’s a lazy, rainy Tuesday when you’re caught off-guard. You’re spending your downtime in the break room today, finding it pleasant mostly because it’s one of the few places where you can be alone for what seems like hours.

Presently, you’re sitting down, tapping a spare pen you found lying around against the table as you think. There’s a notepad in front of you, but you haven’t written a single thing on it. Not that you ever intend to.

There’s no point in writing anything down when you’re forced to keep everything inside. Sometimes it’s hard to keep track of; all the lies you’ve told and reasons you’ve faked. Something you can’t hide, however, is the stiff pain in your chest whenever you breathe.

It’s gotten worse, the sickness that’s plaguing you. You wish you weren’t you sometimes, just for the false hope that you can get rid of it safely instead of letting it end all that you are.

_Hope._ It’s a rarity to find these days, especially in someone as broken down as you. After all the things you’ve been through, it’s hard to believe that you’re even capable of something as human as hoping, but you suppose it only adds to the strangeness of who you are.

Not that you can share that thought with anyone you know.

It’s a hassle, thinking. It only leads to you finding more to keep away from the minds of those who have managed to befriend you, and in turn, that causes you pain. It’s for their benefit, you reason, because if they know, then they’ll never look at you the same way.

Like you’re a comrade. Someone to be trusted. Someone to care for and care about, and who they know will do the same for them.

But would you do the same for them? You certainly think so. And still, there is hesitance when it comes to admitting a single truth.

You are unwell. There is an unnatural growth in your lungs, and it surrounds your heart as well. Thorny stems squeeze tight whenever you cough, and you only cough when your thoughts stray towards him.

You shake your head, trying to refocus. _Don’t think about him._ But how can you not? It doesn’t seem that long ago that you were watching footage of Charge saving lives on the streets of Los Diablos. You looked up to him back then, and that much hasn’t changed.

What has, is that he is no longer a mere idol to you. He is Ricardo Ortega now, a man you’ve grown to care for. You wonder when it was that he went from being Charge, the Ranger, the hero, to simply Ortega.

A human being.

A coughing fit forces its way out of you, and for the fifth time this week, you wonder why fate seems to have cursed you with this illness, why you’re so miserable all the time. It’s not fair, but nothing ever is, and nothing ever will be for someone like you.

_You’re nothing without them._

The thought has been circling your mind for weeks now, ever since the first time. You wish it wasn’t true. What are you, without these people to call on you? You can try to hide your past and run from it, but running only gets you so far.

You can try to atone for your sins by fighting villains and winning battles in the name of good, but you know it won’t be long until the truth catches up with you.

Until _they_ catch onto you.

You can be as careful as possible, but you’re bound to slip up soon—if you haven’t already, that is. _Have you?_   Your mind whirls, trying to catalogue every action that could result in your ruination, when the door opens.

For once, it’s not Ortega, barging in to show you the latest stunt he’s trying out. No, it’s far from the person you like.

It’s Steel.

He seems to ignore you as he walks in, heading straight for the fridge. From the looks of it, he’s upset, but he’s always seemed upset in your presence. You keep your mouth shut after you clear your throat, and turn away from him, trying to surround yourself with your thoughts again.

But Steel isn’t leaving. The fridge door shuts, and he just stands there. Looking at you.

It only takes a second before you sigh and begrudgingly glance at him. “Can I help you, Chen?”

His eyes, dark and full of disapproval, meet yours in an instant. “I’m just wondering why you’re here. Shouldn’t you be somewhere with Anathema or Ortega right now?”

“No. I was just minding my own business,” you say. “Don’t worry. But, if it bothers you so much, then I guess I’ll leave.” You start to get up from your chair, but Steel puts up a hand as if to say wait.

“You should take better care of yourself,” he says, sounding oddly sympathetic for once.

Your eyes narrow, and you find yourself frowning at him. “My health is none of your concern.”

“It is if it gets in the way of what we do,” he retorts. “We can’t be looking out for you all the time, especially not in the middle of a fight.”

He’s right. You hate that he’s right. You know better than to try and respond when you’re defeated, so you sink back down into your chair. You turn so that you can’t see him.

“Leave me alone,” you say. Your voice is quiet and sad, and you hate it.

Losing is a luxury you can’t afford, but just this once, you allow yourself to taste it.

It’s bitter, and the sound of the door shutting hollows out your chest.

If there’s anything you know for certain, it’s this: you are no hero, and your life is a sham. You don’t belong. You never will.

For as long as you’re alive, there is no place for you. Not in this world, and not in the next.

You will spend your whole life wandering and searching for a place that feels like home.

Another wave of coughs unleashes itself upon you, and you’re left surrounded by handfuls of small yellow dandelion petals in the bleak and lonely break room.

If only this place and these people weren’t a sort of home to you.

If only you were someone else. Some _thing_ else entirely.

If only.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I still don't know where exactly this is going, but I'm sure I'll figure it out soon. Anyway, this is a bit of a longer chapter than usual, and I'm gonna pray that it doesn't seem like it drags on for too long. If it does, sorry. I felt like writing more this time.


	4. weeds.

You’re in the park on a warm and sunny Friday afternoon.

It’s different this time.

For once, you’re not on duty, working as your heroic persona. You’re just you, a nobody who sits on the grass and picks at the dandelions.

They’re making a mess of your hands, yellowed by petals and sticky with pollen. There’s a bit of white fluff from older dandelions stuck to you, but you figure that rubbing your hands on your clothes later is enough to get rid of it all.

Anathema’s with you, busy guzzling water from a reusable plastic bottle as they look around. “It sure is hot out, huh?”

“Yeah,” you mutter, distracted by the way the fluff stays together as you twirl a dandelion stem in between your fingers. “If I didn’t know any better, I’d think we’re boiling alive in this heat.”

There’s laughter from Anathema, but you don’t even spare them a glance. The dandelion in your hand has taken all of your focus, and you wonder why, out of all things to grow in your lungs, it had to be some damn weeds.

It couldn’t be roses or tulips. No daisies or sunflowers. Not even lilies.

_ Dandelions. _

You have weeds in your lungs. If this were a joke, you’d laugh.

Instead, you scowl at the offending plant in your grasp and toss it aside. It takes a moment, but you manage to tune in to what Anathema’s saying at the very last second.

“—so I drew a mustache on his photo. Funny, right? I can’t decide if it looks good or bad yet.”

You nod and give them a half-hearted smile. Usually, you’d be all ears; you love spending time with Anathema. But today you can’t focus on anything other than the abnormal growth inside of you.

“Hey.” They clap a hand on your shoulder, jolting you out of your mood. “Shit, sorry. I forgot.” They draw their hand away, lightning fast. “I just wanted to get your attention.”

“It’s okay,” you mumble. Then, a bit louder, “I’m sorry; I haven’t been very attentive.”

“That’s alright; you’re allowed to think about stuff if you want to.” At your lack of response, they look at you carefully, eyes filled with compassion and concern. “Hey, are you okay?”

_ No. _ “Yeah. Why?”

Anathema’s nose scrunches up like it always does when they’re feeling skeptical, and you sigh. You suppose you can tell the truth this time. “It’s getting worse.”

“The sickness?”

“Yeah.” You catch yourself staring at a patch of dandelions, and suddenly your fingers ache. Your teeth itch. You want to get rid of this. This awful thing that makes you sickly in seconds; that threatens to stop your heart and smother your life.

The words leave your mouth faster than you realise. “Do I matter to you?”

Their eyes widen in alarm. “Of course!” they shout, sounding completely unlike their usual bubbly self. “You’re my friend; why wouldn’t I care about you?”

That’s not what you asked.

“I know you care,” you start, “but I want to know if I matter. If I died, would you miss me?”

“God, someone’s thinking morbidly today. Yeah, I’d miss the hell out of you. Who else is going to laugh at my pranks?” 

You don’t bother with a reply. Anathema stares at you with nothing but care and worry, and after a moment’s silence, they sigh. “If you think we don’t need you, stop. You’re an asset to the team, even if you’re not officially on it with us.” A smile graces their features, and the comfort in it is enough to make you return the gesture.

“Thanks, Themmy.”

“Don’t mention it. I’m always up for a heartwarming chat.”

You start to let the conversation die, but something sticks in your mind. “Hey, how did you know what I was thinking?”

“Oh, I didn’t. I just guessed. Ortega said you seemed down lately, so I tried to piece two and two together.”

_ Ortega. _

It seems like everything comes back to him these days.

You can’t figure out if it’s fate or a curse.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is, without a doubt, the fastest I've ever updated anything in my whole life thus far. I hope this was an enjoyable chapter to read. There's more coming soon.


	5. dreams.

You’re staring into a toilet bowl at 4:45 am.

It’s empty now, filled with clear water and nothing else, but a moment ago, it held the contents of your stomach.

This is the worst it has ever been.

In your tired, sleep-fringed haze, you weren’t sure why you felt the need to stumble into the bathroom, but you are now.

You were dreaming. It was pleasant, for once, and flashes of it still paint the backs of your eyelids when you shut your eyes.

Him. You. A fantasy.

You reach up to cover the toilet bowl with the lid and end up resting in your exhausted daze. The press of porcelain against your warm forehead is cooling and disgusting at the same time. Perhaps if you were more awake, more alert, you’d be back under your covers and already drifting off to the bliss that is sleep.

In place of that ideal, is the fact that you’re sitting on the bathroom floor dressed in your pyjamas. You’re leaning against the toilet, all of your energy spent.

You’ve barely moved. It’s like having the flu, the lethargy and unbearable urge to sleep.

So you do. You sleep. You dream.

He’s there, saving you. You don’t know where there is, but it doesn’t matter. He’s with you.

Ortega pulls you out of the wreckage; out of the debris. He taps the front of your mask, and you pull it up to just above your mouth. When he kisses you, it’s heavenly.

When he kisses you, it hurts.

You awaken with a jolt, a choking sensation making you alert in an instant. The pressure and churning sensation inside of you are building. You push the lid up off the toilet and wait; head bowed slightly.

Nothing happens. You’re left in a cold sweat with sore limbs and aching bones. None of your body feels right.

The following morning, you’re walking around the Rangers' HQ. He’s there. He smiles at you. He tries to make conversation, and you give stilted replies.

This is going to kill you.

He comments on your appearance, says there’s something stuck to your clothes. He points at your chest, and you glance down.

 _Dandelion fluff._ A single dandelion fluff, lonesome and innocent in its ways. You force a careless chuckle and brush it off with ease. 

You wish it was that easy. You dream of the day you’re all right.

Your misery must show on your face because he asks you if you’re feeling okay. Your brain pauses, trying to find a reasonable lie.

You take too long. You can tell by the frown on Ortega’s face. And ever-impulsive, he grabs you by the wrist and drags you into the break room. His voice is commanding as he orders everyone to get out, and as Anathema passes you, they flash an encouraging smile your way.

The silence that remains after everyone else is gone feels like your end. “Sit down,” Ortega says, letting go of you so he can sit down himself.

You swear your arm is on fire. You sit.

“Let me get this straight,” he begins, leaning forward to look you in the face. “You’re sick. You look miserable. But you’re still here, even though you should be resting at home?”

You don’t say anything. He sighs before continuing. “Look, this isn’t good for anyone. Not the team, and certainly not you. And we need you, okay? You’re the best vigilante I know; _mierda_ , you’re the best _person_ I know. I’m certain we couldn’t have done as much as we have without you by our side.”

You feel a warmth in your heart, and hope blooms for a moment. Maybe you can tell him the truth.

But then he says, “So try to tell Anathema. I’m pretty sure they feel something too.” and all of your hope is extinguished.

You forgot about your lie.

You suppose it doesn’t matter; he’s only concerned because he has to be. It’s his duty as marshal, and you’re getting in the way of the Rangers’ safety, of everyone's safety.

It's as Steel said: you shouldn't be a concern in the middle of a fight.

And in a mere second, it all clicks. That’s why he’s doing this—not because he likes you, but because you're a hazard to the group.

You’re a fool to believe that Ortega could do something as impossible as loving you. You’re unlovable; always have been and always will be.

Nothing can change that.

“Yes,” you mutter, trying to keep the disappointment from your voice and hoping any bit that slips through sounds like reluctance. “I’ll do that.”

“Thank you.” His smile, full of relief, burns its way into your mind. It cuts a hole in your heart, but all that leaks out of that hole are your hopes and dreams and wishes.

People like you don’t get happy endings. You don’t deserve one after all that you’ve done.

You don’t know why you dreamt otherwise.


	6. fate.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for taking so long to update! I've been busy with online summer school and battling writer's block.

Tonight, you lie awake, remembering every single moment where you’ve felt hands on your frame.

Your body is a minefield littered with senses, touch, taste, smell, sight, and sound all muddled up.

You wish he was here, lying in bed with you. You imagine him asleep and curled up beside you, one arm lying protectively across your form.

Sometimes you think it’s strange that you crave the most innocently intimate things in a relationship, but when you look at the bigger picture, it all makes sense.

No one has ever touched you in a gentle, affectionate way before. No one has ever shown you love in the smallest ways possible.

Your heart aches for comfort, for someone to care. Your mind knows better, knows that you are unworthy of such treatment. The only saving grace for the night so far is the fact you haven’t expelled any petals from your system yet.

But “yet” means that it will happen eventually. And it won’t be pretty. It never is.

The rest of your night is spent restlessly, and when you finally manage to sleep, it isn’t for long.

You awaken feeling exhausted, but you get up nonetheless. There’s no rest for the wicked, no love for them either.

It’s the very opposite of that thought that causes you to nearly lose your breakfast later.

After a strange twist of events, you’re the one rescuing Ortega once the battle ends, and he clamours out from underneath a fallen sheet of metal as soon as you lift it.

“ _Gracias,_ ” he says, pulling you into a grateful hug. “I guess we’re even now, huh?”

“Sure,” you reply, extracting yourself from his too-comfortable embrace. “Whatever you say.”

His smile is blindingly beautiful. You wish he would stop presenting it so much; if only to spare you from the aftermath of looking at something so unsuspectingly lethal.

You swallow sickness away for the moment and avert your gaze elsewhere, yearning for the moment you can rip off your mask to wipe away your now-cold sweat. “I haven’t said anything yet, in case you’re wondering.”

His grin fades and shifts into a disappointed frown. “Why?”

_Because this doesn’t involve Anathema,_ you think. _I love_ you _, Ortega._

“I’m just nervous.” A half-lie. At this point, you’ve made a habit of them. One after another, never knowing when to stop or admit the whole truth.

“Ah, well, I’m sure you’ll be able to get that confession out eventually. If you want, I could be your wingman.” He gives you a confident wink, and you can’t help but chuckle.

“I’ll pass, thanks.”

“Okay, but the offer stands until you do it yourself.” He claps you on the shoulder as he walks away, and you turn your head to watch him head over to the crowd of reporters, all of them dying to hear a word from the Rangers’ marshal.

Halfway towards them, he looks back at you, only to see that you’re looking at him. His eyes widen with shock, and you look away abruptly. So abruptly that you swear you’d have whiplash if it weren’t for your brain interfering. 

As the reporters undoubtedly bombard Ortega with question after question, you’re left wondering what’s happened in the past two weeks since he sat you down in the break room. Nothing out of the ordinary, from what you can remember off the top of your head. There might’ve been more hugs than you usually allow, but he hasn’t seemed suspicious about that. There was that moment where you (literally) bumped into him when heading into the hallway, but then again, you hadn’t slept well the night before.

You still remember his playful chuckle and the twinkle in his eyes as he remarked, “You might want to watch out next time, huh?” You remember the kind smile he had, and how desperately you wanted to kiss it.

Your hands clench into fists at your sides. There is no way on earth that Ricardo Ortega likes you. It would be dangerous and nearly impossible for the odds to work in your favour. There’s no way. There’s just no fucking way.

...But if he does, you aren’t going to complain. It would solve all the problems that lurk in your lungs. It would give you a chance to live longer instead of running on borrowed time.

Not to mention you’d have someone to love. And someone would love you.

You wish life were a fairy tale, but you know in your heart that if it were, you’d be the dragon. The witch. The monster. The villain, forever and always.

No one gets redemption in fairy tales. Only death.

Perhaps that is your fate.


	7. loss.

It’s another hot and humid day in Los Diablos, and since nothing nefarious has been happening lately, you’re at home. Alone. Lounging about and sweating your ass off since you went out for a leisurely run ten minutes ago, just after lunch. You have to keep in shape, after all. There’s no use in being a vigilante if you can’t keep pace with the villains.

You decide to take a shower, now that you’re indoors and a bit cooled off, to wash away any grime and dirt from your run. It’s a few steps to the bathroom, a few minutes to undress, a single minute to turn on the water and start your bathing routine.

It’s both sooner and later than you expect it to be when you finally turn off the water.

Stepping out of the shower, you grab the nearest towel and begin to dry yourself off. 

A glance in the steamed up mirror shows a blur of what you are, and although you despise the look of them, you wipe away some of the steam to see yourself.

_ There. _ All of the scars that mar and line your form are present and accounted for. You swallow revulsion like it’s water. Away from the prying eyes of the public, you have to be honest—you hate this body. You hate this skin. All it shows is the loss of who you are.

You wonder, for the nth time, if anyone will ever be able to look at you unclothed without hatred or disgust in their eyes. Without a negative emotion or analytical gaze.

Ultimately, you decide that it’s better not to know. At least for today. You have more important things to occupy your mind, like the thoughts of what you’ll do to rid your body of its unnatural floral issue.

You’ve been mulling over the idea for a while, and you’ve just about decided—you’re going to tell him. It’s the only way if you don’t want to meet an early demise. The issue now is not whether you will, but  _ when _ to reveal your feelings.

For the past two days, you’ve been trying and failing, either chickening out at the last minute or having something else occur to divert both his attention and yours. It doesn’t help that nowadays, your coughs expel the white fluff of dandelion puffs instead of their typical yellow petals.

You’re running out of time. You’re lucky you’re not coughing up blood yet.

It takes a moment, but your mind refocuses on the task at hand. You dress quickly, as though you’re trying to forget what you are.

But it’s harder than it seems. It always is.

How can you forget, when everything around you is a constant reminder that you don’t belong? If you let yourself focus, the pain is imminent, and the feeling of foreignness hits hard.

_ You are nothing without them. _

You are nothing to them.

It’s a thought you run from, but then again, you’ve been running for years. It’s practically second nature at this point.

Another glance in the mirror shows you false normalcy. A life you pretend to have. A story that will never truly unfold.

For a moment, you wonder what the point is in trying to save yourself if all you’re going to do is live a lie. Then, in the next moment, you take a breath. You let it go.

It doesn’t matter anymore. What does is the here and now, where you’re struggling to breathe thanks to the flowers in your chest.

You have to tell him. Ortega has to know.

The only solace you’ll have in his rejection is that it’s him who did you in, and not you and your reluctance to speak.

With that in mind, you exit your bathroom. A few minutes later, you’ve left your apartment. You’re going where you know you’ll find him: Rangers HQ. It’s there that you’ll make your confession.

It’s only fitting, considering it’s where he discovered your secret in the first place.

Sadly, it’s the only secret you’ll ever be able to tell him. All the other ones are far too dangerous to risk it. All the other ones are sure to make him stare at you like you’re a monster. You hope the day never arrives when you have to bare the whole truth to him and everyone else.

As you get into a taxi, you hope this is enough—one secret. No lies. Not today. Hopefully not ever again.

But deep inside, you know you’re asking for too much.


	8. wishes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Minor emetophobia warning for the beginning.

You aren’t supposed to wish. You aren’t supposed to want. You aren’t supposed to play hero, and you aren’t supposed to fall in love.

Except you have. You’ve done all those things and more. You’ve proved to the universe that you’re worth something. Or at the very least, you hope you might’ve.

Because if that were true, why are you on your knees in front of a toilet, body trembling with the effort it takes to expel your stomach’s innards?

The moment you stepped foot in the Rangers’ headquarters, your body gave out. You ran to the nearest washroom and locked yourself inside, and that’s how you’re where you are now.

You’re sweating, dry heaving, and dehydrated. You’re Sidestep, vigilante and comrade to the Rangers.

You’ve fallen so low. You’ve fallen so quickly these past few months.

Thanks to this sickness, you’re falling in love and falling out of place. Back where you’re from, they would consider you to be experiencing an abnormality, and you’d be an abomination of an anomaly.

In other words, you’re a failure.

The mere thought of being something so dismal almost makes you smile. If you’re a failure to them, then that’s a win for you.

_Will this confession be a win, too?_

You’re pondering the thought as you stare into the bowl of clear toilet water below, but deep down you know there’s only one way to know for sure.

So you get up slowly, hand braced against the wall for support. The few steps to the sink and mirror are taken with caution and care; you don’t want any more accidents happening. You rinse the taste of blood and dirt out of your mouth with cupped handfuls of tap water, careful not to swallow any, and wipe your hands and mouth with a paper towel. Despite your typical aversion to mirrors, you chance a look, seeing nothing out of the ordinary other than a pallid appearance.

 _Good enough,_ you deem.

Upon your exiting the bathroom, you head to the break room in search of some water. Lucky for you, Anathema’s already there, and more than willing to let you have a sip from their water bottle.

“You doing okay, Sidestep?” they ask, watching you gulp down half of the bottle in one go.

Your nod doesn’t seem to convince them, but they hold their tongue until you put the bottle down. “I’m okay,” you say, sounding a tad bit breathless as you wipe your mouth with the back of your sleeve.

Anathema wrinkles their nose. “Riiight. And I’m Steel.”

Ordinarily, you’d narrow your eyes and shut someone up with a death glare for snarking you, but it’s Themmy. You love Themmy. So instead you sigh, just like the last time they didn’t believe your less-than-subpar lie, and admit the truth. “I’ll be okay. Hopefully. I just have to tell Ortega—”

“—that you like him?” they finish for you.

 “Yeah. Except...he thinks I like you.”

“Oh. Is that what you told him?”

You feel obligated to nod, so you do.

Anathema sighs as they gaze at you. “I wish I could help, but I can’t.”

“I know.” You look down at the table, silently wishing for a do-over for that moment. For that whole day, if possible. From the moment Ortega found out, he’s believed a stupid, impulsive lie that escaped your mouth faster than you can blink. All because of your poor judgement, no less.

Anathema regards you carefully before beaming. “If it’s any help, I believe in you. I’m sure this will go amazingly. I mean, come on, he definitely likes you.”

“How can you be so sure?” You cross your arms. 

Anathema shrugs. “I just do. Call it a sixth sense.”

Usually, you’d call it bullshit, but for Anathema’s sake, you smile contentedly. Whenever they say something like that, you go with it. Not because they’d hurt you otherwise, but because you love them. And you know better than to let down someone you love, especially if it’s for something as harmless as a simple saying.

Besides, who knows? Maybe they’re right. Maybe Ortega does like you.

As the saying goes: speak of the devil, and he shall appear. Apparently, it works for thoughts too, because the door opens and Ortega walks through. Perhaps it’s because you’re a telepath; thoughts are the same as spoken words to you.

One glance at Ortega has you weak over his grin. Lucky for you, one look at your current state has him frowning.

“Why are you here?” His tone isn’t accusatory, but it’s edging close enough with concern that you flinch.

“I felt like dropping by; that’s all.” _There’s no way this is going to end well._

Ortega gives Anathema a look that conveys, “we need privacy.” They don’t need any further persuasion; they get up, give you a wink of support, and leave. 

Ortega settles down in Anathema’s now-vacant seat and leans forward, hands pressed together as he furrows his brow the way he always does whenever he has to be blunt about something.

As you’re watching him, you can practically feel the dandelion puffs in your chest starting to bloom. _It’s now or never._  

“Before you start lecturing me,” you say, “I already know. I shouldn’t be here. I should be at home, taking care of myself.”

He looks up. Nods once. “Took the words right out of my mouth.”

You can’t help but sigh. The truth has to come out, but it’s more painful to state than any lie you’ve ever told. “There’s a reason why I’m here.”

“To confess to Anathema,” he concludes. You bite your lip and look away from him.

“No. That’s not why I’m here.” You shouldn’t tell him. He doesn’t like you. Why _would_ he like you? You’re nothing but a liar and a fraud. Everything that he thinks you are is a sham.

The only reason he would ever love someone like you is if you were someone else entirely.

Out of the corner of your eye, you see his brow furrow in confusion. “Then why—“

You can’t do this. It’s too much, too painful, too close to losing everything you’ve worked so hard to conceal. Your life might be on the line, but when has it not been? You’ve always known the risks, so why forget them now?

Your chair skids loudly as you get up and head for the door. You’re just about to open it when he says, “No. Wait.”

It’s only due to a faint lingering of hope that you turn around, the expression on your face one of pure tension. “What is it?”

He‘s standing now, having risen from his chair when you were walking to the door. The distance between you and him stretches only a few feet, making you realise that he was about to follow you out. It feels more like an ocean‘s width than the span of a couple of floor tiles. “I’m worried about you. If you aren’t here to confess to Anathema, then why are you here?” Ortega doesn’t say anything else, and even though you can’t read his mind, you know how close he is to begging relentlessly for the truth.

There are two choices in front of you, and one of them is your usual go-to: lying. But the other option is what you promised yourself you would do. You can’t renege on that decision after making it this far.

...Can you?

Ortega is standing in front of you; his brown eyes filled with concern. You might not be able to read his mind, but sometimes you figure it’s better to be head-blind. It makes you more human. It makes things more real.

And there is nothing more real in this moment than your feelings. So you take a breath, summon your courage, and speak the truth for once.

“You. You're the reason why I’m here. I like you, Ricardo.” You’re surprised all of that manages to leave your mouth, but it does. There’s a tense silence after the sound of your voice is gone. The laughter you expect doesn’t come. Neither does the pain of rejection, with dandelions growing in abundance to swallow up your life force.

You look at him, and something seems to click in his brain because all he says is “Oh.” and the world freezes.

It’s a universal pause waiting for his next breath.

When the world starts up again, you come alive. He takes your hand, pulls you close, hugs you so tightly that your body practically lights up with surprised joy.

Then he kisses you, and the taste of his mouth is the sweetest thing you’ve ever had the fortune to try.

It seems your wish came true.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry for taking so long to update. Summer school was a priority, and immediately after it ended, I started playing and subsequently became obsessed with Breath of the Wild. I hope the lengthier chapter makes up for it.


	9. heartbreak.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's here. This is the final chapter. I hope you like it. I also hope you don't.

You’re falling four stories. You’re a failure. You’re a fool.

You wake up drenched in a cold sweat, heart racing faster than it did on the day of your confession. Whenever you have this dream, it feels like a fated nightmare waiting to happen. Nothing calms you down except waiting for the fear to pass.

All you ever remember are flickers and echoes—walking up a stairway, tensions high and ever-present. A body—your body—that no longer feels like your own. A force presses down, down,  _ down _ on you and everything you can do. Window glass shatters; the weight of your body crashing into it. Gravity pulls you closer and closer towards a grave of hard asphalt until you meet your demise.

You shove blankets aside and clamour out of bed, a wave of nausea leading you to the kitchen, where you pour yourself a glass of water and take a few sips. It doesn’t help.

You don’t want this dream to turn into a reality, but whenever you have it, it feels inevitable.

Maybe it will become real. Maybe it won’t.

Padding back to your bedroom, glass in hand, your gaze flickers to your phone.  _ Maybe I should call Ortega. _

But what would you tell him?

That you had a nightmare about dying, of course.

He would be tired and concerned and tell you sweet things to help calm you down, but it wouldn’t shake your fear completely.

You’d wake up with the terror still lingering, stuck in the back of your mind, sticky as honey. Sadly, you know it won’t wash away easily. It’s more likely to leave messily, like the flowers in your lungs did. The only upside to that moment was the fact that it didn't hurt for once.

With a sigh to diminish the silence of your apartment, you place the glass on your bedside table and crawl back into bed. Your phone remains untouched for the rest of the night, and you eventually drift back to sleep. You don’t dream.

When you step into the Rangers’ headquarters the following afternoon, you’re greeted with a friendly wave from Themmy, spoken “hellos” from others, and a peck on the lips from Ortega.

“Someone’s happy today,” you remark.

“Is it a crime to kiss you now?” he teases. “Because that’s one crime I won’t condemn.”

A smile graces your face. The freedom to indulge in your emotions always feels like a tiny victory. “Then I guess that makes you a violator of the law.”

“The hallway isn’t a place for flirting, you two,” grumbles Steel from behind you. “Some of us are trying to do our jobs here.”

Ortega grabs your hand and leads you to the break room before you manage to spit out a snide remark. The rest of the day passes without any incidents, Steel or villain alike. Things are going well.

Perhaps your worries were all for naught. You smile that night, drifting off to sleep. There’s no way you’re going to die so soon—not while things are looking up.

Paranoia won’t get the best of you; you’ll make sure of that.

The dream doesn’t return, and your sleep is uninterrupted for the following two weeks.

You’re happy. You’re reasonably healthy. Your life is a fairy tale, despite the previous doubts in your mind that you would always be a monstrous villain instead of one of the lovers in such a story.

Things will be fine. Nothing will happen.

Your naivety proves fatal every damn time.

The day comes when the call arrives—you’re needed. There’s a threat. Someone called Heartbreak is making people kill themselves, telepathically.

You don’t have a good feeling about this.

The feeling only grows the moment you see all of the destruction, all of the deaths and all the bodies. There’s pressure gripping your mind. It wraps itself around you, and it pushes and shoves, and after Anathema dies—you lose it.

You lose everything that day.

You are a failure in a world full of successes, and you were foolish enough to pretend that you could be just like them. You wanted to believe that you could be one of them, that you could leave all of your problems behind like garbage.

You know better now.

You know otherwise, now that the ground is coming in fast. You are mere seconds away from the end of your pitiful life.

The sight of asphalt sears itself into your mind. Your last thought is not of Ortega, not of Anathema. It’s not even of yourself.

The last thing you think is that it was worth it. Your life might’ve been a pale shadow in comparison to the lives of others, but it was yours. You lived it as best you could, and you regret nothing, even though you wish you had more time.

All you ever wanted was love and freedom. Instead, fate gifted you with dandelions and fluff.


End file.
